


unknowable

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [81]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Implied Relationships, Isolation, M/M, Mental Instability, Mild One-Sided Attraction, headcanons galore, shadow clones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26768386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Series: DS Extras [81]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	unknowable

"I suppose this would technically be uncouth, wouldn't it?"

The shadow did not answer, of course; of the three, none of them ever did.

Maxwell was used to this, and yet a shiver of irritation still knotted up in his chest. Even after so long surviving out here alone, he was still used to getting at least some sort of answer, whether wanted or not it never quite mattered, and the sheer unresponsiveness of his own doppelgangers irked him more than he'd like to admit.

Even as he stood before the last he had summoned, the other two hacking away at the trees nearby, the former Nightmare King gave it an unsatisfied, scowling look. Up and down, taking in its posture, its build, the flutter of the nightmare oils solidified into mock copies of his own suit, his own features, its empty, oily smooth face; Maxwell frowned at it, and the shadows all felt his unrest.

The other two glanced over, slowed their work, and in Their eyes Maxwell saw himself, standing before a mimic and appraising it in a negative light. Displeasure swirled within him, thus within Them, and the ghastly feeling bubbled up in a thick, disgusting froth that simmered inside his own chest, viewpoints split and yet hatred shared all the same.

One of the two twitched its held ax, a vague thought, passing fancy gracing its shared conscious, but Maxwell easily swept its nagging away. He turned his head, gave the both of them a sour look, a flick of his wrist and then they were back to work, back to chopping trees, stripping the branches and leaves from the trunks, cutting everything into carefully organized, satisfactory sizable pieces. Winter was only a few short weeks away, after all, and he needed the oversupply to hold him out when the hard snows came; living alone out here required foresight and a storage of supplies, and Maxwell did not relish the possibility of freezing to death _again._

Neither did he find the thought of frostbite appealing. Last winter lost him a few fingers, though in the end the ever lovely visiting Deerclops had fixed that problem up by just killing him in one unsuspecting blow; while waking upon a touchstone miles away from the ruins of his camp had not been appreciated, having his working hands back was a viable exchange. 

As the other two went back to work, only a few sliding conscious thoughts rising through them from his side, the third stood still and stiff before him, unmoving, waiting patiently. Maxwell eyed it, eyed its straight backed form and thin structure and featureless, hollow face, and he knew he should send it off to work with the others, knew he should occupy his time in some other, more meaningful way. He still had traps to finish, to arrange around rabbit warrens and spider dens, scatter seeds out in the trapped fields and start collecting whatever birds and their feathers he can catch, the blow darts he needed to craft may come in handy if any walrus hunting parties try to track him and throwing them off his trail by attacking first may just give him the chance he needed to survive-

Maxwell _knew_ he should be doing something more important.

The shadow stared, not quite at him, no, straight through, and it waited.

As he had willed of it, and Maxwell stood before it, sucked in a deep breath through a snarl, a scowl as he glared at it, and the seeping, deepening cold feeling of the shadows soaking through just got stronger.

If he wished to thwart Their mutiny he cannot maintain Their forms for all too long. His will would eventually shred down into base needs, wants, and unfortunately that has ended with his death at every turn.

Maxwell stared at his own shadow, knew deeply well that at its core all it wanted was to kill him in the most violent manner possible, and the rest of the shadows and Their ilk would always laugh and laugh whenever such a thing occurred. He did not wish to tempt such a thing, not now and not anytime soon.

And yet, he did not dismiss it, or send it off after its kin, off to cut down the trees and wood he would need to keep his mortal self still tied down to this present realm.

A cold, slimy drop, something other and of Their presence, pooled down his spine, seeped through the cracks and nooks and crannies his shadows had split into him from their creation, and it made Maxwell shiver but he did not send this shadow clone off.

Instead, with a setting determined force of will, and a familiar sense of shadow influence to his core, Maxwell stepped up to the doppelganger, raised his hands, and began to enforce his will upon the nightmare fuel.

"It is not as if there would be a consequence for it, would there?" The shadow tilted its head as he muttered to it, a thin vein of judgement that flickered within him and settled to its aura for a faint moment before it was swept away by his hand, and Maxwell's face drew low, curled in concentration as he shaped and molded and _changed_ what had once been his perfect copy.

The other two had slowed again, were idly watching, and yet Maxwell made no move to dismiss Their attention; his own curiosity, determination spurred through them, shared in a deep connection as the fuel coiled and shifted like clay within his grip, and faint bits of shadow steamed up like smoke, dripped in drooling glops as he discarded extra fuel, moving the weight, moving the posture, the shape and build.

Another snaking thread of judgement, a hint of shame rose in his throat for a brief moment as the two showed through Their eyes exactly what he was doing, but Maxwell snarled the thoughts away, ignored the creeping weight in his chest as the shadows coiled in thicker, allowed in by his will and his will alone.

"I have no audience," he hissed, to himself and thus to them, even as They watched with his own focused vigor, "There is no reason why I shouldn't do what I wish."

The fuel twisted and turned in his grip, as he curled and coiled and molded what had once been his shadow into a different shape, and something in him boiled raw with the shadow influence, unsteadying his mind, but Maxwell _didn't care._

He has survived on his lonesome for far too many seasons worth of time, seen no hide nor hair of anything but pigmen and rabbits and merms, and his actions thus should not be compared to any others. Internal shame marked him in what he has done on his lonesome, as he knew very well what haunted the other idiotic pawns trapped in this place, alone or otherwise, and solitude warped the living in ways the former Nightmare King knew almost intimately well.

Of course he did; one of the others, the librarian if he remembered correctly, once remarked he was a prime example of such things. It had seemed like a light hearted joke, at the time.

Under his hands the shadow before him became someone else, someone familiar in the way that spoke of his own isolation that came from being separated from the others for so long now, and it tilted its head for a moment, eyed him with its eyeless gaze.

He could see himself, through it, and the sight was so very lackluster as his hands hovered over what he had created.

The other two were working no longer, silent and watchful, and They shared the flush of hesitance, blank almost shock that settled oh so quietly over him now as he looked upon the false image.

"...Perhaps it has been too long since I last saw him." Maxwells mutterings were quiet, as he eyed the shadow; it had less nightmare fuel to its form now, to account for height, yet his hands had molded it to what little he could remember. 

As he picked and dug through his own mind for a moment, brow furrowed in inner thought, the shadow raised its own fuel slick hands and began to emulate what he could find himself picturing. Its taloned fingers drew over its head, spread and brushed through the fuel as it softened and molded itself in mild memory, and Maxwell watched as his envisionment started to solidify with a better clarity. The nightmare fuel curled and coiled and spiraled in strands of emulated hair, taking a familiar visage that, for a brief moment, made the shadows within him quiver as his sensibilities took full stock of what was before him, but it was quickly, easily silenced down by the more dulled down emptiness that had long taken its place.

Survival required his shadows, required Their use, and having opened up to allow Them in required giving up what humanity he had retrieved after the Throne; Maxwell found his feeble sense of ethics, morals, and reason to be even less than worthless when on his own. There was no use in keeping his morality alive when all it gave him was death in the end.

Perhaps They found this entertainment enough to keep him from crossing paths with the others for so long; it was a deeply darkening, sinking thought, and Maxwell did not let himself dwell for long on it. 

He would not admit, to Them or himself, that he so deeply missed the unwanted company of loud, uncaringly rude and obnoxious humanity.

The shadow followed his train of thoughts as he led it along, gloved hands drawn back and away as he eyed its slow, steady work, as the other two started to drift, fumble a hint closer, drawn in by the slow picking up of his own traitorous heart, threads of wheezing shame and embarrassment and yet, and yet that strikingly tempting trepidation, patience shivering thinner and thinner as he took in what his very own shadows reflected from his own will, and the cloying mixture of self hatred and distress and sheer _aching_ was sinking very lowly and very badly with the allowed shadow use.

He shouldn't let it get away from him, Maxwell knew, but he's been alone _for so long now-_

And there was something he was missing so very _deeply-_

And if the shadows and They were willing to allow his willpower to shape something he _wanted_ then perhaps, just this once, he'll allow it.

When it finally pulled its talons down, loose once more by its sides and faceless face tilted up to him, Maxwell could feel the fringe of what its sight showed him but all he found himself caring for was the sudden upheaval of vague _familiarity_ , caught in his throat and twisting knots through his lungs.

It was nothing like the original, of course not, of course, but it's been a very, very long time since he saw said original anyway, and so it was, perhaps, just close enough.

"As if he would ever know." Maxwell hummed, a vague sense of off kilter dizziness taking him as he stared down at his changed shadow, and yet it was flushed over with an even stronger feeling of _satisfaction_ , mixed high with uneven anticipation. "As if this means anything, in the end."

When his own hands rose up to touch its face, for a very brief moment he could almost imagine a rough aftershave, the slight rugged bumps and the oh so familiar feeling of a messy growing beard.

Of course, it was just his imagination, the shadowy nightmare fuel oils smooth and soft, buzzing warm numb and pins and needles even through his gloves, and yet his focus had been pinned, his thoughts drained by shadow influence and his own flagging will as Maxwell leaned over his created shadow, gently cradled it's oh so familiarly shaped chin, the rough, so well known jawline.

He hasn't seen Higgsbury in a very, very long time, and yet his memory has crafted him a shadow look alike that made something more sensible in his chest _ache._

"You know as well as I, how little this matters here." He whispered softly, holding the shadows head, face to face and so close now as the inner fuel that created it shifted and turned and coiled in bubbling dark colors that shone with the Constants false ugly light. It made no move, no acknowledgment, patience as he had commanded of it, as his will commanded of all his controlled shadows, and faint frustration tried to overtake him but Maxwell was already a little too far gone to care, looking into the dark empty facelessness of that which he missed so dearly and pretending that he might as well see something there in its place. 

Something shivered up his spine, feeling the other two shadows inching closer and closer, feeding off this gaping, draining sense of _want_ in his chest, and the grin that spread upon his face was more crooked grimace than any self assured smirk, curled foul at the edges in his own fuel using madness.

"If this is all I can have," he hissed low with a broken smile on his face, whispering to his shadow, his very own that had his sight watching back upon him, this view of an aging old man having lost himself to solitude and Their increasingly promising lies, "then I may as well indulge, shan't I?"

The shadow didn't answer, of course; none of them ever would, not unless he commanded it of them, and what he willed of Them was what They willingly gave.

Its talons clasped lightly to him, commanded to his wrists, as he cupped its face close, and it tasted of oils and spices and Their intoxicating presence, of tar and smoke and ash and death, so much familiar, entertainingly wonderful _death_ , and the shiver of shadow influence and weight and control pooled thick and heady in his mind, his chest, coiled tight as he leaned against what he had created and allowed his own mind to revel in utter empty madness for a few brief, blissful moments.

His shadows made no move in reaction, when he pulled away, unsteady and feeling weak, sick, so damn sick, talons just loosely holding to his wrists, its head still cradled in his hands, and Maxwell blinked away the swirling spotty vision shadow influence washed him with, overdose in a convoluted, corrupted form. Its form was smooth, as his thumbs slowly rubbed little circles against its shadow created form, its dark swirling cheeks and jaw, and a flutter high graced him with an almost hysterical exhale of a sound.

He's gone mad a long, long time ago, Maxwell knew, perhaps long before being trapped alone in some part of the Constant with only Them and his creations for company, perhaps he had gone mad long before the Throne, perhaps, oh, perhaps he had gone long mad and this was all him now, everything, all of it, survivor and Them and himself and existence itself-

The overindulgence of shadow use weakened him in ways he did not wish to acknowledge, and They hummed Their approval, as Maxwell shivered, staring down at the shadow form of a man he has not seen in such a long time, to the point that a slithery little doubt entered his clouded mind.

If, of course, he was long mad and this was all him, then perhaps there had never been a Higgsbury in the first place. What a thought.

It made the chuckle that escaped his throat, dragged from his lungs sound strained, wheezing in a dying breathe that stuttered in sharp, shallow gasps, and Maxwell hissed out the hysteria in almost coughing huffs, a slow, dizzy moment as he felt the balance of this world, once his and now no longer, twist and turn in a dizzy spiral under his still feet.

There was faint pressure, faint static warm pins and needles as the other two shadows huddled up behind him, his own copies that gathered together against the original and nuzzled Their faces to his back, to him in false fond comfort, and it made him tremble even more so, gag a sharp, hysterical spit of a laugh, a sob. The doppelgangers held him up, the one before him shifting forward as its talons rose and dragged from his sleeved wrists up his arms, to his shoulders, and Maxwell giggled as the other two circled their own claws about his sides, mock hugs that curled him closer into their embrace.

All by his command, he knew, dizzy and manic in the sudden expanse of realized solitude, the sudden dropping understanding that _he was alone and he would always be alone-_

"What, what do I even want?" He cackled, hissing soft, jagged gasps of breath that came out more sobbing than he wanted to acknowledge, a dampness to the air he fully, whole heartedly ignored as the shadows about him embraced him in self comfort, the fuel sizzling as salty tears fell into contact with the swirling oily skins. "Why, why do I-"

Sense swirled in a blind hatred of his own blubbering, as the shadows hissed along with him in command, in control, do as he did, as he willed, but this heaving that had overtaken his senses, set loose by Their curious veins and influence, They now watched in the shadows that lingered behind fallen trees and tangled uncannily amongst the grasses, eldritch twisted snake forms watching him intently, and Maxwell tore his gaze away from Them, back to his shadows, Their copies of him, and his momentary distraction had shifted his doppelgangers once more.

The two behind him clung, tall and thin and encompassing in the vain fits of hysterical clinginess, needs to be fulfilled that he had long discarded, and their claws were too tight and catching to his worn suit threads but cling was all they did, all he allowed of Them, all he-

_What do I wish for?_

The other that had entangled against him, pushing him to the other twos grip, into his own in this split sense of four, he was of four shards, four understandings twisted by his own madness and all Maxwell could do was cling to the exact copy of himself that had solidified once more into shape, discarding the illusion of safe familiarity into only a mimic, only a shadow.

His shadow, and the former Nightmare King trembled, shook as half choked sobs and fits of pealing laughter escaped him in a mad swirl of Their influence, Their allowed understanding, and soon enough he'd be fit once again to dismiss Them all, just enough sound mind to gain back the crumbling, aching will of his humanity and focus back upon survival, on the ways of the living within this empty realm of the Constant. His solitude would remain unbroken, and his doppelgangers would bend under his command any which way he willed of them, and They will not let him forget his indebt gratitude for Their aid, Their mercy. 

Soon enough Their long mad former Nightmare King will regain himself back into giving Them entertainment, but for a little bit longer They allowed his fit to play out, draw him thin and shaking and weak, vulnerable and aching for the meaning, purpose stripped away from him a long, long time ago. He clung to Their copies of him and They hummed Their satisfaction for such groveling in answer, in blessing.

He used to be such a favorite of Theirs, after all. Playthings, even long broken and undone, were always fondly remembered.


End file.
